The Observations of Henry eBook

after which he proceeded to deal out axes and old
rifles. In his report he mentioned that he had
taken a hand himself, merely as an example to the flock;
I bet he had never enjoyed an evening more in all
his life. The second fight began, as usual,
round the Mission, but seems to have ended two miles
off. In less than six months he had rebuilt
the school-house, organised a police force, converted
all that was left of one tribe, and started a tin
church. He added (but I don’t think they
read that part of his report aloud) that law and order
was going to be respected, and life and property secure
in his district so long as he had a bullet left.

“Later on the Society sent him still further
inland, to open up a fresh station; and there it was
that, according to the newspapers, the cannibals got
hold of him and ate him. As I said, personally
I don’t believe it. One of these days
he’ll turn up, sound and whole; he is that sort.”

THE SURPRISE OF MR. MILBERRY.

“It’s not the sort of thing to tell ’em,”
remarked Henry, as, with his napkin over his arm,
he leant against one of the pillars of the verandah,
and sipped the glass of Burgundy I had poured out for
him; “and they wouldn’t believe it if
you did tell ’em, not one of ’em.
But it’s the truth, for all that. Without
the clothes they couldn’t do it.”

“Who wouldn’t believe what?” I asked.
He had a curious habit, had Henry, of commenting
aloud upon his own unspoken thoughts, thereby bestowing
upon his conversation much of the quality of the double
acrostic. We had been discussing the question
whether sardines served their purpose better as a
hors d’oeuvre or as a savoury; and I found myself
wondering for the moment why sardines, above all other
fish, should be of an unbelieving nature; while endeavouring
to picture to myself the costume best adapted to display
the somewhat difficult figure of a sardine. Henry
put down his glass, and came to my rescue with the
necessary explanation.

“Why, women—­that they can tell one
baby from another, without its clothes. I’ve
got a sister, a monthly nurse, and she will tell you
for a fact, if you care to ask her, that up to three
months of age there isn’t really any difference
between ’em. You can tell a girl from a
boy and a Christian child from a black heathen, perhaps;
but to fancy you can put your finger on an unclothed
infant and say: ’That’s a Smith, or
that’s a Jones,’ as the case may be—­why,
it’s sheer nonsense. Take the things off
’em, and shake them up in a blanket, and I’ll
bet you what you like that which is which you’d
never be able to tell again so long as you lived.”

I agreed with Henry, so far as my own personal powers
of discrimination might be concerned, but I suggested
that to Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Smith there would surely
occur some means of identification.

“So they’d tell you themselves, no doubt,”
replied Henry; “and of course, I am not thinking
of cases where the child might have a mole or a squint,
as might come in useful. But take ’em in
general, kids are as much alike as sardines of the
same age would be. Anyhow, I knew a case where
a fool of a young nurse mixed up two children at an
hotel, and to this day neither of those women is sure
that she’s got her own.”